A Poem

By Yamoria

Placentas spilt into ash valley
Cries barely moulded
Our breasts are smeared in his ashes
Paraffin built breaths boundlessly burdened by bonfire egos
We are leftover flame
I am a heathen’s prayer and yours answered all the same
My hips remind me of stolen glances, and wet dreams these days
See men (semen) these days view us as shallow things to drown in
As limbs cascading down folding but not quite drowning

We are muted
We are lightning on cardboard
A paper bag of 29 reasons why god is just a story
We are muted
We are sin-ridden bibles
Scarlet seas stretched open to showcase parables of how not to stitch those thighs on
We are muted

Thrown up stories of how not to decorate the streets
Or on how to select fabric when stepping out into a flame
We are ice-carved kettles and failing to house flame
We are misinterpretation
My father’s hands housing a diamond my mother will never get to wear
We are debt-ridden bicycles and on our way back to slavery

We are something you love only with the parts of you that grow back
Like your fingernails
And those sideburns
And the brittle elements in your masculinity
Young girl, tell me why do you wear your mouth like that
Like the second cumming (coming) of man won’t be housed in that
And why do dress your parts like that
Like a greater amount of fur-ever detoured the predator from hunting prey like that
And why do you flick your tongue like that
And choke on cum (rum) like that
We are muted.